


Lights in the Shadow

by inkandillusion



Series: Inquisitor, Luna Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, Found Family, Pining, Politics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 22:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20535488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandillusion/pseuds/inkandillusion
Summary: “But I’m not a leader!” Luna protests with a violent shake of her head. The storm in her blood crackles, lightning dancing on her fingertips as the anxiety mounts. They’re wrong. They have to be. And if they’re not now, they will be - and then it’ll all be too late. “I’m not like any of them.”“Moonbeam,” Varric sighs, “do you think they wanted to take the reins in any of this? They did it because they had to. And like it or not, you’ve got a mark that says you do too.”





	Lights in the Shadow

_Cassandra -_

_Here’s where we stand:_

_Blink is missing. I’ve tried every contact I can think of that might have any clue to where he is, but I’ve found nothing. Either they’re very, very good at lying, or he’s gone somewhere we can’t follow. I don’t know what would drive the Hero of Ferelden so far, but he’s gone._

_Neikea has told us in no uncertain terms that she will have nothing to do with the Conclave. I sent one more message to her; my agent came back with a broken arm, a Silver Order escort, and some of those cookies I left in your tent._

_Hawke is… ‘missing’ as well._

_To put it simply, we’ve exhausted our options. We need to look elsewhere. And soon._

_\- Leliana_  
  


* * *

  
It isn’t pain that wakes Luna up, not quite. Pain would shatter and splinter into sharp shards. What keeps bringing her out of the dark again and again is more of… a sensation. A tingling in her palm that doesn’t belong to the storm magic dancing through her veins. A strange feeling demanding she wake up.

She can’t glean much from the world around her. It’s dimly lit, shadows dancing along damp walls and firelight jumping on the blades pointed at her neck. Too many swords. Unshackled she’d hardly be a match for the six, surely trained soldiers surrounding her. No focus, no help, too thin, too weak. _Uncle always said you should learn how to fight._ On her knees, her feet fallen asleep, she’s no threat to these warriors.

All she can tell is that she’s a prisoner. What for, and where? _That’s_ the question, isn’t it.

Voices hum beyond the door before her. Quiet, hurried. Footsteps under them that don’t echo quite right in the damp cell. She tries to hear, wants to, but the blood is already rushing in her ears. Fear turns her palms sweaty, and the slow trickle of salt causes the prickling to pick up. _Now_ it stings. She cringes, a whimper cracking in her throat.

The door is flung open.

There’s light beyond and it hurts her eyes. Makes her flinch away from the doorway and raise her arms defensively. _Don’t_, she thinks just as her hands are shoved back down. She tilts forward with them, nearly falling onto her face before she catches herself, pushes herself awkwardly back to her knees.

The chains rattle too loudly in the silence.

Two figures, both towering over her. Down on her knees, it’s even worse. But there’s something about the two of them that carries them higher than just bones and stature. Pride, strength, confidence - a set of traits she does not possess. Luna shrinks before them, a weak trembling beginning in her shoulders. _I will not cry_, she promises, _I can’t let them see it_.

“Tell me,” the first figure approaches as she speaks, bending down to her prisoner’s level, “why we shouldn’t just kill you now.”

_Nevarran_. The accent surprises Luna; the last place she expected to hear her father’s tongue was in the coldest armpit of Ferelden. She’d think there was hope in it, if not for the words spat in her face. Whoever this raven-haired woman might be, whatever connection they might find, won’t save her here.

“Cassandra,” a second voice urges. Quieter, smoother. Lilting with an… Orlesian accent. “We need to question her.” Definitely Orlesian.

“For what?” The words are out before she can bite them back. She expects a blow, a stinging slap to put her mother’s to shame. But nothing comes; the figures only watch her. They do not answer her question.

“What is your name?” the Orlesian asks.

“Lu-Luna Trevelyan. Of Ostwick,” she stammers it out. It sounds more like a question.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Even in the dark, Luna tries to meet her captor’s gaze. There’s no point in trying to save face here; let them think her weak. She is, after all, at their mercy. But the other woman’s eyes are little more than shadow beneath her hood. “I… I don’t. I was at the Conclave. I got separated from the mages I came with. We were here on behalf of Grand Enchanter Fiona. I was trying to find them and then- then-” her throat tightens as the words spill out. Closes with the unforgiving wave of terror that crashes over her. Then what? She can’t remember-

Not quite. She can. But all she remembers is fear. Fear eclipsing everything. A glow ahead. A voice? _They won’t believe that._ And then, just as suddenly, _They’re going to kill me._

“Those mages are dead,” the Nevarran - _Cassandra_ \- snaps. “Everyone who attended the Conclave is dead. Except for you.”

The terror ebbs for a moment, replaced with a dull echo of shock. A one-two punch as the words settle in her ears. “What…?” she whispers, the world around her shrinking, tunneling to nothing more than tiny pinpoints. “What?”

She doesn’t hear their responses.

She can’t.

All she sees are the mages she’s spent weeks with. All she hears is their laughter, their stories, their hopes for a hopeless meeting. Shared dreams of a world where they could exist unshackled. All of it gone in a blinding flash, replaced with a roar and then ash falling lazily around her. A gentle winter morning, reeking of burnt flesh and hair, blanketed in surreal silence. Her coughing is the only thing that breaks it, and then metal as swords are unsheathed.

And then the strange prickling in her palm.

Except now it’s pain. _Now_ it’s shattering and splintering. And now it _hurts_.

The Nevarran has her arm in an iron grip. She’s too close now, so close Luna can see the snarl crossing her lips and feel hot breath on her cheeks. See the way the anger twists her scars and changes her from a warrior to an unrelenting storm. “The only thing to come out of the Temple was you, with this mark. Tell us what happened!”

She cries out as the grip tightens, hot tears pouring down her cheeks as her palm spits angry green sparks into the dim cell. And whether in disgust or shock, the woman drops her arm. The stone floor rushes to meet her, but this time Luna does not try to reclaim her balance. She lets herself fall, curls in on herself as her shoulder connects with the ground.

Dead. All dead. So many she knew, dead.

And soon she will be too.

“I don’t know,” she whimpers against the cold stone, staring at one of her captor’s boots. Tears blur her vision. She doesn’t try to sit back up. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

She doesn’t hear them leave.

**Author's Note:**

> HEAVY BREATHING this is my first time posting my stuff publicly... I kinda want to hide forever but I swore I'd do it.
> 
> And let's just put it out there first and foremost - names? Are gonna be weird in these parts.


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